


January's Always Bitter (But Lord This One Beats All)

by Daecyan_Shikoba



Series: Time Still Turns the Pages of the Book It's Burned [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, part of the 'How Do I Live Without The Ones I Love' universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daecyan_Shikoba/pseuds/Daecyan_Shikoba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Anwen gave him a weak smile and leaned into his hand. “Melinda gave me a CD when she visited last week. It has our song on it; would you put it on for me? I’d like to lay here in your arms and listen to it, before you have to go to work.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Set between the events of 'We Do Not Remember Days; We Remember Moments' and 'How Do I Live Without The Ones I Love'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	January's Always Bitter (But Lord This One Beats All)

**Author's Note:**

> This exists purely because I listen to music (ha! what's new?) and also because I need _angst_ ~~and this is only a temporary solution because the angst I want needs to have a permanent, not at all happy ending~~. The title comes from the song 'Wolves' by Garth Brooks (ahahaha wow the hilarity of that does not escape me at all), and I spent most of the time writing this with Tracy Lawrence's 'Paint Me A Birmingham' on repeat (I do not recommend reading this fic while listening to the song, unless you're up for an extra dose of pain, because damn it's kinda the perfect song for the sheriff and Anwen ~~shut up, I know her canon name is Claudia but for the purposes of this 'verse it remains Anwen~~.  
>  JOIN ME IN MY PAIN

* * *

Anwen looked even worse that morning, dark circles under eyes and dark bruises on her arms, wrists, the backs of her hands, all the places the nurses stuck needles into her. Her smile was weak, fragile like porcelain, and Caleb felt his heart constrict in his chest. There was an envelope sitting on the tray next to her bed, his name written in her shaky script. Caleb didn’t want to think about what it could mean.

 

“Good morning, my love,” she greeted, voice cracking and whisper-soft.

 

Caleb forwent the chair, sitting down on the edge of her bed and wrapping her hands in his. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, to her temple, to the circles under her eyes. The ever-present grief sitting in his chest since she’d been hospitalized grew even heavier, thicker, choking him and burning his eyes.

 

“Good morning,” he whispered against the bandana covering her hairless scalp.

 

Anwen intertwined their fingers and turned her head to press a kiss to Caleb’s jaw. “I saw Peter yesterday.”

 

“Oh, God,” Caleb closed his eyes, feeling guilty, and pressed his lips to the bandana. “How could I have forgotten to call him sooner?”

 

“Shh,” Anwen hushed him and reached a hand up to pet his hair. “He was more than understanding, and you’ve been so stressed it’s a wonder you haven’t forgotten to get dressed in the morning.”

 

Caleb huffed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her closer. Anwen sighed softly, nuzzling her face into his throat and closing her eyes. He listened to her heart monitor, staring unseeing out the windows.

 

“How long before you head to work?” She murmured a few minutes later, pulling back enough to look at him.

 

“Not for another half hour,” Caleb said, reaching up to stroke his thumb over her cheek.

 

Anwen gave him a weak smile and leaned into his hand. “Melinda gave me a CD when she visited last week. It has our song on it; would you put it on for me? I’d like to lay here in your arms and listen to it, before you have to go to work.”

 

Caleb nodded and twisted around until he could reach the CD player sitting on the table between her bed and the curtain separating her side of the already-empty room from the other. He grabbed up the CD case, popping the disc out and putting it into the player while checking the front to see which track their song was. The grief curled thicker at the back of his throat, his eyes misting over as he read the list of songs Melinda had compiled for Anwen. Their song was the second track, so Caleb pressed play and skipped forward one.

 

The first beat of the song drifted softly from the small speakers, George Jones’ low twang not far behind the first notes of guitar, crooning “Loving You Could Never Be Better” as Caleb shifted back around and wrapped his arms around his wife. Anwen pressed her face against his shoulder, and Caleb shut his eyes tightly as he thought about their wedding night, their first dance as a married couple, to this very song, swaying together under the twinkling fairy lights the Hales had hung in their garden for the reception. He swayed their upper bodies gently, trying not to cry as he sent silent prayers to a God he wasn’t sure even existed, begging for her to pull through this.

 

He didn’t think he could make it without Anwen. Couldn’t take care of their son, their little boy so young, too young to lose his mother. Caleb didn’t want to face life without her. Anwen was the love of his life, the piece of him he couldn’t stand to lose.

 

The CD changed songs, another one from George Jones, and the first line had his eyes hot with tears. Anwen squeezed her arms around him as tight as she could, and it hurt because it was less than half the strength she used to have, pressing apologetic kisses to the hinge of his jaw. She whispered against the stubble there, promising him that it was alright to cry, and Caleb let the tears fall quietly as he held her closer.

 

“I’m so sorry, my sweet,” Anwen whispered, voice hoarse with her own tears. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Caleb pulled back enough to kiss her softly, his hands cupping her face, thumbs swiping the tears from her cheeks. “Shh, no, hey, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

 

Anwen bit her lip, brown eyes shimmering, wet with unshed tears. “I’m afraid, Caleb. I don’t want to leave you, or Stiles.”

 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes tightly as he held his lips against her clammy skin. “You’ll be alright; be better in no time.”

 

She gave him a pained, watery smile. “I love you so much, you know? You and Stiles, you’re my whole world.”

 

Caleb hid his face in her neck. “I know. I love you too, everything about you.” He moved his hand until it was over the pawprint he knew hid beneath the soft material of her shirt, cupping it for a moment before he moved onto the wolf tattooed to her forearm, then to the angel silhouette on her shoulder blade, something she’d gotten just before they found out she was sick. They stayed like that, listening as to the CD Melinda had made her, until Caleb had to leave for work.

 

Anwen shoved the envelope with his name on it at him, her large eyes sad. “If I die, don’t read it until you’re ready, love.”

 

His fingers tightened on it, wrinkling the paper. Caleb kissed her, feeling desperate grief suffocating him. “I _love_ you,” he whispered fiercely. _Don’t leave me_ , he thought.

 

* * *

 

Caleb had never hated their financial situation more than he did that morning, when he had to leave Anwen alone in her hospital room while he worked to pay all the bills and keep food on the table for Stiles. And he’d never felt as much despair as he did when Melissa McCall called him back to the hospital that afternoon. He never thought his heart could shatter quite as much as it did when he raced into the waiting room on Anwen’s floor and saw his son folded into one of the stiff chairs, skinny little arms wrapped around his legs as his eyes stared blankly at the wall in front of him, quietly crying.

 

He knew what that meant. All of the different meanings, he knew. He knew Anwen was gone, that he’d never see her smile or hear her laugh or watch her twirl a drumstick absently or sleep beside her in their bed. He knew Stiles had watched her fade away, listened to the monitor flatline, probably bustled out of the way as nurses sprung into action to try and resuscitate his mother. And where had Caleb been, while his son watched her die without him?

 

He’d been at _work_.

 

Caleb had never resented the obligation he had to the community of Beacon County as he did in that moment. He had never hated being a cop more than he did when Stiles finally noticed him, and shattered into a million little pieces that Caleb had no clue how to pick up.

 

He wrapped his son in his arms, pressing his face into the shorn hair Stiles demanded when he’d realized his mother no longer had hers, and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. The tears were hot on his face, and hot on his neck, and no one bothered them while they cried and clung to each other in the middle of the waiting room.

 

* * *

 

The ground had been too hard, and they’d had to wait a few weeks to bury her. Caleb had spent those weeks half-wishing she’d wanted to be cremated, because the waiting only made it worse. The waiting had made Stiles anxious, terrified his mother wouldn’t be allowed into heaven until she was buried.

 

Now, standing at her graveside, staring down at her coffin as some stranger said a few prayers for her immortal soul, holding his son in his arms, Caleb wanted nothing more than to go home and drink until he couldn’t feel anything but numb. No, he wanted for Anwen to be _alive_. And he wanted not to have to know how truly small his son was, for a boy his age, purely because Stiles had cried himself to exhaustion so many times Caleb had taken to holding him in his arms like he was a toddler again.

 

After the prayers, friends - he didn’t have family, and her parents died a couple years after Stiles was born - came up to him, offering condolences and hands on his shoulder, squeezing as they assured him they were there for him if needed. Caleb hugged Stiles closer to him and gave them tight smiles in return.

 

“Caleb,” Melinda said, her voice somber. She cupped his cheek, expression heartbroken, and then brushed her hand over Stiles’ head gently. “I wish there was something I could do to fix this.”

 

“I know,” Caleb murmured. “She loved you like a sister.”

 

Melinda swiped at her eyes and nodded. “She is my baby sister, and always will be. You’re family, too. We’ll be here.”

 

“Thanks,” Caleb whispered gruffly, and leaned briefly into Melinda’s hug. After a moment she let go, and he watched her walk back to her husband, collapsing into his embrace, and felt a familiar pang as he wished once again for Anwen.

 

Stiles sniffled into his neck, sleeping fitfully. Caleb cupped the back of his head gently, and wondered how he was going to raise Stiles without his wife. He wondered if Stiles would ever be okay, if the nightmares and tears would fade away.

 

“She’s flying high now,” Peter murmured, solemn, and stepped up to stand beside him.

 

Caleb pressed his shoulder to Peter’s and tipped his head back to stare up at the cloudy sky. “Too far away from us.”

 

Peter turned and reached out, gripping Caleb’s shoulder comfortingly. “Yeah,” he agreed, blue eyes wet. “Much too far away.”

 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this, Peter,” Caleb said, his voice cracking. He dropped his head back down, eyes catching on the sketchbook in the werewolf’s hands.

 

“With our help,” Peter replied, and then lifted the sketchbook up for Caleb to see clearly. “I, um, brought this. For you. It… It’s full of my sketches of Anwen, and the two of you, and then the three of you after Stiles was born. I thought...that you might like to have it.”

 

Caleb readjusted his hold on Stiles and then reached out to take the sketchbook, smiling sadly at the hawk drawn on the front cover in black sharpie. “Peter, you don’t have to…” He glanced up, meeting Peter’s eyes before looking back down at the sketchbook to avoid the look in his friend’s eyes. “Thank you.”

 

“I’m always going to be here for you, Caleb. You and Stiles. You’re my pack,” Peter said.

 

* * *

 

Caleb had one of Peter's sketchs - one of Anwen sleeping with Stiles in her arms - framed and hung in the dining room. He started taking Stiles to a therapist, who taught him how best to handle Stiles’ panic attacks (and he ached, because no ten-year-old should have to experience anything like that), and helped Stiles. Three weeks after her funeral, Peter took him to get a memorial tattoo for Anwen, a brilliant hawk perched on his heart, her initials and the dates of birth and death hidden in the feathers.

 

The Hale house burned down three months after Anwen’s death, killing nearly the entire Hale family, orphaning Laura and Derek Hale, and leaving Peter comatose.

 


End file.
